cloud.
'Is it done?' Kapustin asked.
'Of course, Comrade—'
'Casualties?'
'One on our side…'
'Only one? Good.'
'What are your orders, Comrade Deputy Chairman?' Was Aubrey even paying attention—? Damn the old man… damn him. He could not rid himself of the sense that Aubrey had somehow reversed their positions, become the superior by his inattentive silence.
When Kapustin replied, Voronin realised that the Deputy Chairman sensed Aubrey could hear the exchange. There was a silky pleasure unusual in the Deputy Chairman's gruff voice as he said, 'Do I need to repeat them, Voronin?' Momentarily, Aubrey's face narrowed to an expression of hatred. 'Very well. I shall repeat your instructions. The aircraft will depart at four-thirty. Before dawn, your guests will be in Moscow. Tell them the weather promises to be fine. Arrangements here are in order. All matters will be dealt with speedily. Please assure them — but perhaps they can hear my voice, Voronin?' The young man did not reply, merely smiled into the room. Aubrey refused to attend—! 'In which case,' Kapustin's voice continued, 'I can assure them personally that no time will be lost in dealing with their — problem. No time will be lost.' The repeated words were purred out. 'Is there anything else, Voronin?'
'No, Comrade Deputy Chairman — there is nothing else.'
'Then goodbye…' And then, because Kapustin could not resist the temptation, he added: 'Goodbye, Sir Kenneth,' in a mocking, triumphant tone. Aubrey's eyes were hooded, but bright with attention. Good, good — at last!
Voronin switched off the speaker and replaced the receiver. Then he sat back in his chair, studying the faces arranged before him once more. Looked down on by those other faces towards which the Massingers' attention had returned. He adopted a relaxed and confident air. They'd got to Aubrey. He knew, he understood. His inattention was no more than an act, a pretence. He was suffering — oh, yes, he was suffering. Knowing that, Voronin cared little or nothing for the others. They had retreated further from him, but that did not matter. Their hands were linked on the woman's lap, but clearly not for the purpose of mutual comfort. Rather, in a union that suggested that the present moment satisfied them.
Satisfy—?
Did Aubrey's suffering satisfy him, Voronin? Did he possess all the feelings, the strength of feeling, appropriate to this moment?
He could not say that he did.
Why not?
He knew why not. Babbington. He disliked the man intensely — always had done, the past two days more than ever. Arrogant — feudally arrogant, the sort you wanted to frighten with a gun or a club, shake out of his complacent arrogance…
Babbington was the hero of the hour. Hero of the Soviet Union. They'd keep the medals for the day he finally came home. Sickening. Voronin felt himself to be a child, excluded from some adult celebration party. It was Babbington's moment; all the satisfaction, the sense of success, belonged to Babbington. He and all the others had been no more than servants, scurrying to do what Babbington ordered. Saving Babbington's precious skin.
Aubrey watched Voronin. He saw the man's pleasure pall and understood the reason. He was no more than a cog, a part of Babbington's machine. Aubrey saw a discontented young man of pale complexion and sharp bright eyes. Not fashionably dressed but dowdy and clerk-like, his suit old-fashioned, a piece with the overcoat and trilby hat he had now discarded. The shirt and tie were drab. Voronin's hair was limp and straight; a dirty blond in colour.
A catalogue of mediocrity. Yet— and Aubrey could not avoid or escape the impression — this mediocrity held their lives in his hands. And would dispose of them all when the time came for him to do so.
This dangerous drab young man represented a lank-haired Nemesis in a clerk's grey suit.
Aubrey's attention retreated. What use were the pretences, the masks? He was beaten and knew it. The Massingers were as good as dead. He, too, after a short, shameful interval, would cease to exist—
Fear came then. He knew why he had hidden his attentiveness from Voronin. The effort had occupied him sufficiently to keep the fear at bay. But now, the fear clutched at his stomach and heart and lungs, almost stopping his breath.
Voronin smiled greedily. He saw. He knew, and appeared satisfied.
The empty street, cobbled and steep, sloped away from him, pooled by shadows which filled the spaces between the lamplight. The sgraffito-work facade of the Schwarzenberg Palace seemed ghostly, luminescent. The other buildings massed silently and lightless in the square; the palaces and the town hall and the Swiss embassy. The carved saints leaned over their madonna directly ahead of him. He felt as jolted as if he had collided with the statuary or with the wall of a building; winded and disorientated. Godwin wasn't there.
A cripple, unable to run, but he wasn't there, wasn't there…
His lungs and heart pumped out the refrain. Godwin wasn't there…
He listened for the sounds of pursuit, watching the square's pools and bays of shadow for the movement of waiting men. As the strain of his efforts faded, another stronger chorus emerged. Stop it stop it,
Routine questioning, slipped on an icy pavement and lying in hospital, too cold for him to come out at all… Hyde hadn't wanted him there, and perhaps Godwin had done no more than change his mind.
The alarms were ringing, distantly and continuously, in the castle. The guards at the closed gates of the First Courtyard were almost invisible to his left, but he sensed their increased alertness like a scent on the cold air. He pressed back against the wall, feeling chilly carved stone against his cheek. He tried to control the little puffed signals his breath made in the icy night. He began to feel cold as the sweat dried. Lights sprang on in the castle's nearest building; neon lighting, flickering on like burning torches hurried from room to room by the men searching for him. The group of stone giants in combat above the gates loomed over the square, black backs and arms muscled and dangerous in the light thrown down from the windows.
The guards had turned their backs to him as they looked back through the gates; already puzzled, becoming dangerous. Headlights flickered across the walls surrounding the Second Courtyard, illuminating the frozen beard of the fountain.
Now—
Lights above him in the government offices of the old Archbishop's Palace. More alarms, louder as if someone had opened a window to let the sound escape. Lights coming on in the Swiss Embassy, reducing the shadows in which he hid. A car starting further up the cobbled hill. More headlights in the inner courtyards, more lights in the room surrounding the square. By now, the fire in the computer room would have been extinguished, and be understood as no more than a diversion. They would be single-minded now, their attention entirely focused on himself. They did not know what he had — but, if they had him, Godwin would tell them, and soon—
Running feet, heavy and booted—
He touched the chilly stone with both hands, as if about to hurl himself away from it, studied the pavement and the cobbles — and ran.
The gates were swinging open, the guards were moving towards the leading car. He saw this as he knelt by one of the parked black limousines in front of the Archbishop's Palace, his heavy breathing clouding the car's polished flank. Booted feet, voices, the alarm shrill, joined by others as if nesting birds had been roused. He got off his haunches and ran, crouching and wary, across the cobbles to the group of figures carved around the madonna. He pressed against the base of the statue and watched the leading car roar out of the gates into the square — wheels spinning, rear of the car sliding sideways, then the drift corrected — and away up the hill towards the Strahov. Only seconds left now. An officer was instructing the guards at the gates; someone yelled down from a high window. A mechanical voice through a public address system began to rouse the whole castle. Only seconds —
He scuttled across the last pool of light, last bay of shadow. A truck with a searchlight mounted on the back
